Old robots do not rust evenly.
The first one arrived in pieces, carried up from the drainage channel after the storm. Its shoulder had gone green. One hand was locked into a fist. A bright bolt remained untouched at the center of its chest, clean as a new moon.
I expected the usual work: remove the corrosion, replace the joints, convince the old motors to turn. Instead, the damage showed us where it had been. Copper ran in thin routes through the shoulder and down toward the heart. The rust had followed its decisions.
We cleaned only what had to be cleaned. We left the scars visible. When the machine woke, it traced them with one finger, as if reading a map left by someone who had gone ahead.
It stood for seven minutes in the rain. Then it pointed toward the hills.
Some repairs do not restore a thing. They tell it where it has been.